I cut my finger pretty badly yesterday while slicing open a passionfruit (which, by the way, I had never seen an actual passionfruit before coming to London). I'm telling you, I was in so much pain that I was seeing stars for a couple of minutes. If I was alone, I might have even cried. But instead, I let out a stream of curses-- in Spanish. Which brings me to an interesting point: I curse in four languages at work.
If you'll remember, my workplace is a cross between a New York City steak-n-burger place and the Cantina scene from Star Wars. We've got Brazilians, an Italian, an English/Cypriot and me behind the bar. Also behind the bar are hundreds of ways to injure oneself, and according to Murphey's Law, There Will Be Blood. The only entertaining part about it, if there can be any entertainment in bodily harm, are the different ways of saying "Fuck" or some other delicious expletive in different languages.
The phrases I shout when shit goes wrong are:
"God fucking dammit"
We also use these phrases for the observation of pretty girls. Usually, the two bartenders will be standing next to each other, arms crossed, sipping soda water, complaining about how hard we work, when a gaggle of gorgeous girls come stepping up to the bar. One of us will gnudge the other, twitch our head in the direction of the ladies, and use one of the previously mentioned phrases, drawing out the words for effect. "Cattsooooo". There might even be a covert high five. Then, we turn it on. The other guys can make killer cocktails. I have to settle for charm.